"Dad, aren't you awful?" said a voice in only laughing disapproval. "My daughter," said the judge, passing joyfully on to Hungerford. "Indeed, I'm very glad to meet you." He shook hands, a trifle embarrassed, with a young lady of quiet self-possession, gentle in voice and action, with somewhat of the thoughtful reserve of her brother. He followed her, only half conscious of a certain floating grace and the pleasure of following her movements, bowing with cataleptic bobs of his head as the introductions ran on: "Miss Sparkes." "Miss Green." "Miss Woostelle." "Miss Raymond." Then he straightened and allowed his chin to right itself over the brink of his mounting collar, smiling, but without hearing the outburst that went up from the equally agitated sex: "Isn't the Judge perfectly terrible!" "You mustn't believe a word he says." "Don't you think he's lovely, though?" "We really were so excited at the game." "Oh, dear, I almost cried my eyes out." "We thought you were perfectly splendid." "We did want you to score so." "I just hated those Princeton men, they were so much bigger." Hungerford and McNab coming up for presentation, he found himself a little to leeward, clinging to a chair, and, opening his eyes, perceived for the first time Hunter, with whom he shook hands with the convulsiveness of a death grip. Miss Sparkes, a rather fluttering brunette with dimples and enthusiastic eyes, cut off his retreat and isolated him in a corner, where he was forced to listen to a disquisition on the theory of football, supremely conscious that the unforgiving McNab was making him a subject of conversation with the young lady to whom he was rapidly succumbing. The entrance of Mrs. Story and Bob, and the welcome descent on the dining-room, for a moment made him forget the awful fact that he had perceived, on his entrance, that the green shirt was, in fact, nothing short of a social outrage. "Every one sitting next to the person they want," said the Judge roguishly, his glance rolling around the table. "By George, if that body-snatcher of a Miss Sparkes hasn't bagged Stover--well, I never! Seems to me a certain party named Hungerford has done very well indeed. McNab, I perceive, is going to set the fashions for the class, but I certainly do like Stover's green shirt." At this a shout went up, and Stover's ears began to boil. "I don't see what you're ha-ha-ing about, Mr. McNab," continued the Judge, diverting the attack, "descending upon us, a quiet, respectable back-woods family, with a boutonnière! I think that's putting on a good deal of airs, don't you? Now, boys, don't let these young society ladies from Farmington pretend they're too delicate to eat. You ought to see the breakfast they devoured. Everybody happy all right."